


Substitute

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Reader-Insert, Student Reader, Teacher Sam, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 21:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10345407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: He replaced the missing teacher last month, and although you’d always liked Mr. Barton, you can’t say that English literature got any less interesting with him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt. I've never written any reader inserts, but hey, it was interesting.

* * *

 

He replaced the missing teacher last month, and although you’d always liked Mr. Barton, you can’t say that English literature got any less interesting with him. You get along well; he gets you, and while you don’t get to know much about him, not even where he worked before coming here, you feel like there’s something about him that needs you. He’s open to you, gods, maybe it’d be better if he wasn’t, but you’re not pulling the breaks on this one.

“I’m your teacher,” you hear him say as if to himself over the drinks you’re having, “and I can’t believe you’re my _student._ ”

Why not, you don’t know. It seems to bother him, and he’s worried about taking it further: you have the drinks, and then you part. He looks you in the eye the next morning, smiles, but acts as if nothing else happened. You’re too determined to let him go, and that night, he has another drink with you.

“I’m an adult.”

“I know,” he tells you, but you’re not sure he does.

“I’m _an adult_ ,” you repeat, “I know what I’m doing.”

He nods. A shiver runs through him and he looks away for a moment.  
“It doesn’t seem right,” he tells the room around you.

You’d think he’d drink wine, but he prefers beer instead.

It takes a long time to convince him to take you home. You’re surprised when “home” turns out to be a shabby motel, and for a while, you feel insulted - for all the courtesy and respect he’s shown you, he’s taking you to a goddamn motel like a discount whore? You’re about to call it off, but some stubborn hope in you gets you following him inside before you do it. And there, well, it becomes quite clear that he’s not taking you for granted; he lives here. This is his home, as far as a motel room can become one. And it’s got two beds, with two bags; you ask him who else lives with him, and he smiles wearily before answering.

“My brother,” he tells you then, and you leave it at that.

You drink beers before anything happens. It’s easy to laugh with him, even though he seems tense now and you wonder if he’s ashamed of taking you here just like you felt offended at being brought here in the beginning. Now it just intrigues you. Who is this guy? He came out of nowhere, replacing a teacher who’s gone missing and is assumed dead by now, but whose remains haven’t been discovered thus far, and he’s living out of a cheap motel room with his brother whose burger wrappings sit on the bedside table with some cheese still stuck to them.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks you, bringing you out of your thoughts.

You chuckle, but you’re not sure why. He makes you feel at ease. He gets you. You don’t get him.

“I’m sure,” you say, and you’re sure enough.

He makes you laugh again when he puts music playing on his iPhone and turns off the lights. You’re left with the golden glow of the reading light, and he pulls you to his bed.

“He’s not coming back tonight, is he?” you ask, nodding towards the empty bed beside you, already on your back and with his hand in your hair.

“No. You don’t have to worry about that. He might come in the morning, but - well, you’ve got to go early, don’t you?”

You nod, biting your lip. He kisses the corner of your mouth and you feel like he plants a small flame beneath your skin there, a flame that spreads warmth throughout your body.

“Tell me if you change your mind. I want to know.”

You make a sound of agreement and pull up just enough to kiss him on the neck; you bite a little, suck a little, and he sighs in submission. That’s the only thing he submits to, however. He’s got large, strong hands that search through your whole body - they cup your waist, they paint out the curves of your hips, and they run over your thighs and warm up the inner sides of them so that you let out a gasp of anticipation before he’s so much as gotten underneath your shirt. He isn’t afraid of moving you around, but he never poses you like a doll, like you’re an object; he implies, and you move with him in agreement, because you want to and not because he insisted. You feel like warm wax when he finally takes the hem of your shirt and pulls it up, and you don’t feel embarrasment at being exposed underneath him. Then he drags off his own shirt and he’s got scars on his body that you want to ask about but the question gets stuck in your mouth and you end up swallowing it, instead finding yourself kissing them, dragging your tongue over them like you’re trying to eat them off his skin. He waits for you, and you feel his body responding to your touches: then he’s over you again, around you, his leg between yours and his thigh pressing against your groin, and he kisses your neck and your collarbones and his hand presses over your chest, his fingers splitting above your nipple so that he can bring his mouth over it and massage it as he licks it. You don’t know what to say anymore, but your head’s digging into the pillow and you need _more_  of this - you need everything he can give you, and so you bend your own leg into his crotch and feel him up with your knee, just gently enough to not hurt but demandingly enough to make your presence known.

You might as well own him tonight.

He’s hard and hot in your hand when you help the condom on him, and his body’s tense and vibrating with held-back power when your hand runs over his shaft after it’s done. He seems to second-guess it, and you hold back for a while, seeking out his eyes; there’s a distant look in them for a moment, and it takes a lot of looking to coax him back into the moment. You wonder what he’s been through - if you’re hurting him - but then he smiles and you see relief in that smile, acceptance, and he nods at you and you continue and he lets out a gorgeous, low moan, his hips pushing into your hand. You love every second of it. His jeans slip down his thighs, the skin there as scarred as his torso, and you’re quite sure that one round scar is a bullet hole - you swallow up more questions, wondering whether you’ll ever know the answers. He shakes his head when you retreat your hand and press your finger against that particular scar, and he smiles apologetically.

You won’t know. It’s frustrating, so you bite him on the lip before you bring his hips down against you.

You rock together for a while, and he’s got his arms around you and it feels heavenly. He spreads your legs with his warm, rough hands (nothing like the hands of other teachers, you know that much), but it’s you who guides him inside. Another small gasp escapes you when he grabs your hips and brings them onto his lap before entering you, and he sinks in with ease, and he’s filling you up so that your entire body shudders to the experience, but he’s still careful and mindful of you, never seeming to do much for his own enjoyment.

“You’re liking this, right?” you breathe out, somewhat afraid to hear the answer.

He laughs breathlessly and nods.  
“How about you?” he asks, and his voice is playful; he didn’t notice the concern in your voice.

And you smile at him, and your smile turns into a grin; you nod back and you push your hips forwards, forcing him deeper, and then you’re both gone.

He takes you, his body merging with yours in a manner that makes you feel on fire, and you climb on him and rock with him and against him and feel him thrusting right back, and much of his carefulness fades to make way for a hunger that excites you. He leaves bitemarks on you now, his teeth sinking just deep enough to make themselves known, and you do the same for him whenever you get the chance, feeding that restlessness inside him which makes him push against you harder until you fall back on your back on the bed. There’s an animal inside him and you’re watching it tear through the civilized front: his back archs above you, and then he falls down until you can feel the coarse hair on his belly brush up against your sensitive abdomen. He’s warm and there’s a lot of him, and it’s all over you, and his hair smells of vanilla and orange and feels silky and heavy when it rests over your skin. You wrap your legs around him and make sure he can feel you hold onto him, and he moans again, almost growls, and you feel like doing the same: his movements, the texture of his skin, the curve of his cock inside you, it’s just too damn much - a lot more than you expected. Your entire body’s throbbing, you can feel your pulse where your body’s wrapped around his, just the endless flow of agitated heartbeats like waves crashing against your skin from the inside out. You know he’s close; he’s panting and his skin’s wet against yours, but he’s still holding his hand over the back of your neck and bringing you closer like he wants to become one with you when he comes, like the most important thing in the moment is not his pleasure but your presence.

You feel like you’re special somehow when he does crash down upon you, his hips shaking as he thrusts a few more times with heat before relaxing, out of breath and shaking. His hand moves into your hair and he glances at you with a shy look when he moves off your body, and for a moment you think he’s done and that’s almost alright, but instead, his free hand moves down your body to make sure that you get what you need, too. He’s not finished before you’re finished, it seems.

The next morning, you leave early for school - it’s not like you’ve got a choice. He turns up for work like usual, and you do what you always do: you exchange looks, and he smiles at you, and you smile back at him. Heat charges up into your cheeks as you sit down and open your notebook.

The next week, he’s gone. You have no idea where he went, but by now you know enough to tell that he was never a teacher, and wherever he’s gone, he’s probably needed there more than here.


End file.
